


A Call You Can't Shake Off

by maybetwice



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fingerfucking, Inappropriate Use of Pitch Calls, Porn with a thin veneer of plot, Secret Relationship, Shower Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 02:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8826403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybetwice/pseuds/maybetwice
Summary: After Ginny shakes him off a few times too many, Mike offers remedial lessons in pitch calls.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on tumblr about open communication, and for Sinning Sunday (albeit posting a little bit late). 
> 
> I'm sorry that none of us are going to be able to look at pitch calls the same way ever again.

“Baker,” Mike barks from his chair when Ginny passes his locker, leaning back and turning in it like some kind of sinister Bond villain. She still feels giddy from the win and her head bobs backward in surprise at the appearance of his captain voice.

“Lawson,” she returns with an easy grin, pulling the zipper on her jacket so she can shrug out of it. Night games in San Diego are usually pleasant, but it's late in the season and there's a cool wind off the coast tonight. “Nice win today.”

“Nice win,” he agrees and Ginny instantly knows she’s walked into a trap, because Mike tosses his glove into his locker and leans back with that knowing smirk of his. Mike steeples his fingers when he calls across the clubhouse, “Hey, Voorhies, how many runs did the other team score today?” 

Voorhies looks at the two of them with all the enthusiasm of a man who recognizes a rattlesnake for the first time. He's a man who knows what's up. “Four,” he says and rededicates himself to getting changed with haste.

“Four,” Mike repeats with a self-satisfied smile. 

“And we scored ten, what’s your point?” Ginny wants to get showered, wants to change and go back to her apartment or get a drink or _something._

“Oh,” says Mike. “Blip knocked in a three-run blast and a pair of doubles. Salvamini homered in the sixth. I did my part and drove in three runs, including that triple in the ninth.” He reaches behind him for a high five, which Blip rewards him with, to Ginny’s eternal annoyance. 

“And?” She crosses her arms and waits for him to finish whatever the hell kind of speech he’s going to give so she can roll her eyes at him and get on with the shower and the rest of her already short night. Saturday night games that run late are the worst, because she has ten hours before she has to make it back to the park for the Sunday afternoon crowd. “Your point is telling me about our hitters?”

“My point is that you shook me off _five times_ in the seventh, loaded the bases, and Ormey got a grand slam off you because you wouldn’t throw your fastball when I called it.” 

“So, what, shaming in the public square? Put me in the stocks, Sheriff Lawson, your calls sucked today. Or did you forget those calls that got two men on base in the first, third, and fourth?”

A low groan echoes through the clubhouse that cuts off abruptly when Mike scowls at the rest of the team. Ginny stares back at him unflinching, even when he turns that heavy stare on her. 

“We’re not done here. Get showered, Baker,” he says, but the particular smugness rolling off him hasn’t dissipated in the least when he turns his chair away from her. 

Ginny deliberately takes her time changing out of her uniform and into her robe, and it’s almost half an hour later that she finally strides out toward the showers. Almost everybody’s gone by now, on to training rooms or even home for the day. Everybody, that is, except Mike.

“You know,” he says, pushing up out of his chair and grabbing his shower shoes. “If you hadn’t been dawdling in there, you’d have gotten to shower in peace.” 

“Oh my god,” Ginny groans, dragging her feet along the tiled floor and bumping open the door to the shower room with her hip. She turns over her shoulder and lifts her eyebrows at him, issuing a challenge she isn't sure what he'll do with. 

The answer, apparently, is not a lot. Mike takes the stall next to hers, and Ginny tosses her robe over the door, and turns on the shower. The spray comes out shockingly cold, but Ginny doesn’t let herself make a peep. She just waits until the shower next to her turns on and asks, “Did you sit in your own funk for most of an hour just so you could harp on me about one bad inning?”

“No.” Mike sputters back to her through the water. “Since we’ve talked about this before, and because you never listen to a damn thing I say, I’m going to tell you the complete history of play calls, hand signs, and why you should listen to your catcher until something sticks.”

“You can’t see it, but I’m rolling my eyes,” Ginny laughs, although she isn't. She scrubs salt from her face, tasting dust and a smear of grass from the field. 

“No, you aren't,” Mike shoots back instantly and Ginny knows he's smiling at her barely suppressed laughter. 

It's a good win. They're leading the NL West by four games. They’re going to make it to the NLDS for sure. There's a better chance than not they're going to see the NLCS, the way the team rankings are shaking out. She doesn't want to think about the World Series, afraid she'll jinx it somehow, but their chances are better than the Padres have seen in ten years. Ginny is giddy and so is Mike, even if he won't say it. How could he? He's barely acknowledged the specter of his retirement since he announced it in January. He won't even look at the mementos he's been given at every stadium they've been to this year, though they’re beginning to clutter up his locker.

“No, I'm not,” she finally agrees, dunking her head under the water and reaching for soap. “So, hand signs?”

“Right,” burbles Mike through the water. The sound of him flinging water to the shower floor. “This is the kind of conversation I'm used to having with 19-year-old phenoms, not 25-year-olds with almost seven seasons of professional baseball under their belt, so pardon me if I need a minute to calibrate the talk.”

“I hope you didn’t have this talk with Tommy,” Ginny laughs, on this side of teasing, but when she wipes water from her eyes, the stall door is creaking open. The shower next to hers is still running, but Mike has one hand on the latch for the stall, looking at her with such unguarded affection that Ginny squirms a little, irrationally afraid someone might see and know the truth about them.

They’ve been careful, but Ginny’s long since finished denying herself all the things she wants. There’s plenty to challenge her this season without the extra burden of trying to pretend that she and Mike aren’t painfully attracted to one another. 

_Be honest with yourself, Baker,_ she scolds herself, stepping back to the other side of the spray with a flirty smile, her hands tucked behind her back. This thing with Mike is so much more than simple attraction. 

Mike drops the latch and follows her. His arm locks around her waist at the same second she stops playfully backing away from him and steps forward instead. Their chests collide, knocking loose a throaty laugh Ginny didn’t know she was holding in, and Mike catches the noise with a kiss, stroking diminutive circles along the bones of her face. Ginny breaks first to catch her breath, her eyelashes blinking a staccato while droplets of water cling to the ends. 

It’s the look on Mike’s face when he meets her eye to eye is the sort that would make almost anyone else crumble. And Ginny isn't sure she's _not_. It’s the sort of thing that tells her he means something else when their noses brush and he declares, “I’m going to kiss you again.”

Ginny laughs, “You better.” 

He whines when she kisses him instead of waiting for him to do it, and no, this is so much better than dumb attraction. Ginny’s hands slip across his chest, wandering over a yellowing bruise on his left pectoral where he was hit by a rough throw from third the week before. She circles her fingers around it, listens to his breath catch when her dull fingernails scrape against his nipple. 

“Careful there,” he warns, drops his hand from her waist to palm the curve of her ass, his beard tickling the soft, exposed skin of her neck.

“Or what?” Ginny bucks against him, shivering when his cock bumps against her thigh. He’s hard, she realizes with a start, as if they’re not very naked and very wet and practically grinding against each other. “You’ll give me that lesson in little league pitch calls you were threatening?”

“You think you’re cute,” complains Mike, and then he steps his foot between hers, nudging her thighs apart with a knee. She almost protests when his erection moves from where it’s pressed into her hip, but Mike drags his forefinger down the stripe of curls along her mound and then–

“Oh, fuck,” Ginny swears, but Mike opens her slowly with that single digit. She’s far beyond wet enough to take one finger, and she almost tells him so when she realizes he’s teasing her. 

“Mike,” she protests, fully aware that the syllable of his name comes out on a whine. They’re in the team showers, for fuck’s sake.

“What’s this one?”

Ginny can barely see through her eyelashes, made heavy with water. She shakes her head once, the long coils of her hair bouncing on her shoulders, because she can’t even think, and he wants–

“Are you shaking me off _here?_ ” Mike is incredulous, but just on this side of his barking laugh. She’s not shaking him off, she’s not even trying to think right now, it’s just that he’s not moving, just teasing her, and Ginny needs more than this. 

“Come on, Baker, this is basics,” he says with his mouth is at her ear, just barely close enough to take the lobe between his teeth. And his hand. Fuck, just the one finger is torture enough, unmoving even when she tries grinding down onto it. “Do you want a hint? It’s the one you have the hardest time listening to.”

“Fastball,” she grits out between her teeth, between shallow, quick gasps that come out closer to a broken whine that’s only getting louder. 

“First pitch you learn,” agrees Mike, curling his finger inside her and smiling when Ginny takes her next breath a little too fast, whistling through clenched teeth. 

She knows what's next, knows exactly what he’s doing when Mike adds a second finger and spreads them wide. But this is the game today, and Ginny would be lying if she said it wasn’t weirdly thrilling. 

“Next one.” He shifts against her so his dick bobs next to her hip. His eyes watch when it does, like he can’t bring himself to look away from touching her. A muscle twitches in his neck, the first sign that he’s just as deeply affected as she is. 

“If you think you’re going to get four fingers inside–” Ginny begins to protest, thinking about the signal for a change-up, bites her lip hard. She’s never going to think of anything else when she’s up on the mound, every time he gives the signal for a pitch. 

Mike scissors his fingers inside her, insistently dragging her attention back to reality. “We’re not done here,” he says, smirking a little when Ginny’s mouth falls open. “This is the curveball, right?”

“I swear to God, if you don’t fuck me when you’re done with this weird game of yours, Lawson,” she threatens in a low hiss, seizing the back of his neck and pulling herself in close. It’s not that she doesn’t want to get as far in this game as she can – she’d love to get past the slider, maybe the screwball. 

“We haven’t even gotten to keys yet,” he laughs, but he lifts her clean from the floor and swallows her surprised, giddy laugh with an eager kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth until Ginny opens for him, wraps her legs around his hips. 

“I know the only key _I’m_ interested in learning right now.”

“If you say my dick, I’m dropping you on the tile,” he laughs, but whatever smartass thing he might have said next is gone the instant his cock slips between her thighs and bumps against the knot of her clit.

It’s not entirely what she had planned, inasmuch as she had planned any of this when she came skipping off the field, high on a good win. Ginny feels like there’s lightning in her belly, spiking upward at random. She feels light and effervescent, like they’ve already secured a playoff spot. Like it’s the first day of the offseason and she doesn’t have to avoid looking directly at him in the clubhouse for fear someone will recognize the glint in her eyes for what it is.

Ginny’s never thought of herself as particularly easy to get off, but she’s amped up and already halfway there when Mike shifts her weight in his arms. The angle of his cock shifts and suddenly Ginny finds herself grinding not against the shaft but against the head. Mike swears into the corner of her neck, muffled by the shower, but Ginny isn’t as quiet. Her first orgasm explodes upward without warning, just on the _promise_ that he might fuck her. 

“Jesus.” His fingertips tighten on her thighs, adjusting his grip as they slip and slide against each other in the steam. “I think that’s a new record.” 

“I’m not finished,” Ginny pants, catching her breath and losing it again when Mike cants his hips forward and sinks inside her by a bare inch. She pulls their foreheads together, struggling to control the angle so she doesn’t take too much of him too fast. 

“Ginny,” warns Mike, and there’s the telltale twitch in his neck, his wide set jaw clenched tight to keep himself in check. Whether he’s close, or because he wants to fuck her harder and he’s actually worried about dropping her, she isn’t really sure until he pins her weight against the wall of the shower.

This feels different, more significant somehow. Maybe because they’re doing something incredibly foolish, fucking anywhere _near_ the stadium, let alone a couple dozen steps from the clubhouse itself. Important as baseball is to each of them, to both of them and this thing they’ve got between them – and it _is_ , always will be – they’ve never done anything as risky as this. Maybe it was inevitable, the two of them being who they are.

Ginny slides her hand between them to touch herself, but Mike shakes his head, shakes _her_ off, and replaces her hand with his own so he’s only keeping her up with the one arm. 

“Okay, Superman,” she starts to say, but he gets the pressure just right and Ginny can’t think of anything else to tease him with. She just feels warm and so, so close.

That would be something worth crowing over, Mike finally getting Ginny beyond words, but his breaths are coming fast and short now. She blinks her eyes open to see the creases in his forehead deepening, his eyes shut tight, his mouth opening to say something. Ginny realizes with a bolt of astonishment just before it happens that Mike’s coming, that it’s as much a surprise to him as it is for her, and that it’s probably the hottest thing she’ll ever see with her own two eyes. 

The second orgasm hits like the crack of thunder after lightning, like she’s being pulled into it _because_ of his. 

Ginny pushes her fingertips along Mike’s scalp and is rewarded with a rich, relieved groan that echoes too loudly in the otherwise empty shower. “Not the most productive shower I’ve ever had,” she laughs, far more quietly now that she’s back to something approximating good sense, and fumbles her way back down, although her knees feel soft when she manages to stand straight.

Mike braces himself against the wall of the shower, then fumbles blindly for the washcloth and soap so he can wash off. “I can’t believe you’re complaining.”

She takes the soapy washcloth from him and washes quickly, back to the same post-game rituals she’s used for years to get in and out of the showers fast. It’s not like either of them want to risk someone seeing them come out of the showers together. Everybody already knows they’re close. 

“If you’d wanted to fuck in the team showers, you didn’t have to make a big deal about the game in the clubhouse,” she says, handing back the lathered cloth.

“Oh, no,” Mike laughs, pulling her close so her back is flush against his chest and rubbing his cheek against hers until she squirms at the tickle of his beard, snorting with laughter. “Quit shaking off good calls or we’re doing a full review every night until the end of the season.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.” Ginny shimmies out of his arms and grins at him when she grabs her towel from the door. “Don’t promise something you can’t deliver on, old man.”


End file.
